


constellate

by astraielle, ghoulaesthetics (astraielle)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fictober, Fictober 2018, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Pre-Relationship, Pre-wedding nerves, Unhealthy Relationships, anyway, brief mention of character death, casual blood magic, hence those tags, human mage character but not a trevelyan specifically, okay note warden is mahariel but i used the surana origin slash backstory with some edits, same with the trevelyan tags, vivienne is divine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16172996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraielle/pseuds/astraielle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraielle/pseuds/ghoulaesthetics
Summary: A collection of Dragon Age fictober 2018 fills, pulling from several different lists (but keeping the corresponding day, if that makes sense). 300-500 words each, pairings and genres tagged as it updates.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fictober 2018? hopefully lmao. they're all gonna be for dragon age bc why Not.
> 
> 1\. sharing a bed. iron bull/lavellan.

“I’m cold.”

Bull barely cracked an eye open when the distinctive footsteps of the Inquisitor approached and his tent flap opened a moment after. His watch had ended hours ago, having drawn the first one of the night, and he’d been dozing comfortably on his back since. Not a deep sleep—he could never manage that much when they were trekking around the countryside surrounded by Red Templar camps—but a comfortable enough one to get him through the night.

“You don’t say,” he chuckled tiredly. “I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

Isen huffed, pulling her coat tighter around her body, as if that was actually going to make an impact on her internal temperature. “Yes, the teeth are very cold too—are you going to invite me in or am I moving you over myself?”

“Actually, I think it’d be pretty funny to watch you try.”He shimmied over anyway as she stood there watching with an increasingly less impressed expression as the seconds ticked past. “Good thing I’m too nice to let you struggle.”

“Oh yes, such a good thing. If only the rest of us could be as generous as you are,” she grumbled, waiting until the last possible moment to toe out of her boots and dive into the newly vacant space of the bedroll. Bull easily let her roll into the majority of his blankets, needing only one layer for himself. It took her a moment to become full settled, twisting and arranging herself comfortably against her body.

“For the record,” she said, pressing as many limbs as she could against him without straining, sapping his heat through the fabric of her clothes, “if I were to try something like that, I could just use magic.”

“Mmhm. Would that be before or after you’ve stopped shivering?”

She muttered something else under her breath made even more unintelligible by the way her teeth chattered. Bull chuckled again and pulled her in close, pressing a warm kiss to her temple in the process.

It would probably be best, he figured as they both drifted off, to avoid pointing out the irony of an ice mage needing to be warmed up as much as she did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. shooting star. zevran/warden.

“You’re still up?”

Neri tore her gaze away from the sky and refocused on Zevran. “I guess I am,” she said, lips forming a petite, wistful smile.

“Can you not sleep? Don’t tell me you’re not tired after a day of slaughtering darkspawn and the hearts of all we encounter,” he said as he dropped down and folded himself up on the grass beside her.

“Oh no,” she shook her head, “I’m exhausted.” That same smile again, though more mischevious this time.

Zevran arched an eyebrow at the mage. “Then why are you not asleep? Does the mabari truly take up so much of the bedroll that this is your last resort?”

“Nothing of the sort. I’m just…” She trailed off with a faint sigh, tilting her head towards the stars once more. Periodically, flashes of light would dart across the sky and disappear—shooting stars, as it were. “In the tower, I couldn’t leave. I saw the stars sometimes, through windows too high to look out of properly. Had to settle for etchings in old books. Wynne mentioned earlier that there was a chance to see something like this tonight, and I wanted to. Just in case there wouldn’t be another chance.” She gathered her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on top. Ianeira’s eyes were so dark, they were nearly black, and Zevran could’ve sworn he saw the lights reflected in them as she kept them trained on the heavens. 

“There is a legend,” he said after a moment, “that a wish made on a shooting star will come true. I do not suppose they shared that one in the Circle.”

“They don’t,” She confirmed without looking. “But I think my mother may have told me once, or maybe it was the Dalish equivalent. I can’t remember. The lights in the alienage didn’t really allow for a lot of stargazing.” She peered over at him for a second. “Are you making a wish right now?”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled.

“What was it?”

The stars flashed across her eyes once more, this time he was certain.

“I cannot tell you, my dear Warden—all I can say is that I hope this legend proves true.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 3. morning - f!hawke/isabela

Isabela was, decidedly, not a morning person.

Hawke did not share this trait.

Isabela awoke to an empty bed in the Hawke Estate. This was, in itself, unusual. If Cilla was needed somewhere early in the day, she could be safely counted upon to at least attempt to rouse Isabela up to say goodbye. But the harsh light of the mid-morning sun revealed only an empty obviously slept-on space. With a sigh, she reached down to scratch Hawke’s marbari’s head.

“Don’t suppose you know where that woman wandered off to?” She asked the dog with little hope of an answer. Pickpocket, thus named for his uncanny ability to steal food from people’s packs, looked at her from his spot in the sunbeam about as dryly as a mabari could manage.

“Didn’t think so,” she snickered as the door to the bedroom creaked open, drawing both of their attentions.

“Oh—damn,” Hawke sighed, balancing a tray stacked with food on one hand, awkwardly holding two full glassed with the other, and half-cradling a single bloom in a vase in the crook of her elbow. “I was sort of hoping you’d still be asleep and I could surprise you,” she laughed sheepishly. “So… surprise?”

“Oh, I’m surprised alright,” Isabela smiled softly, resting her chin on a hand. “What’s the occasion?”

Cilla shrugged as best she could and made her way over to the bed, carefully setting down everything she could on the matteress, and whatever couldn’t go there went on the nightstand. “Free time, mostly. Mother is out for a few days, and so are Bodhan and Sandal—I doubt we’ll be seeing much of Carver during the day,” she smiled. “So, I thought I’d… prepare a little something for us. Nothing fancy, but it was nice to cook everything,” she gestured to the spread. Eggs, bacon, fruits, fresh buns, some kind of potato—it must have taken her at least an hour. Isabela was quietly touched. “I think I even remembered how you like your eggs best. Sunnyside up, right?”

Isabela grinned, pulling Cilla in for a kiss. Oh, she could get used to staying with this woman.

“Well, yes,” she chuckled, “but I also wouldn’t mind getting some _scrambled_ either.”

“Wh—scrambled— _oh!_ ” With a light flush, Hawke broke down in a fit of giggles as soon as she caught the joke.

“In that case, just wait until you see what I planned for _dessert._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 4 - "will that be all?"   
> non-trevelyan human female mage/josephine montilyet

Dr Celestine Centanni fidgeted with the sheets of paper in her hand for the hundredth time that hour. It was no big deal, really. She’d spoken with Ambassador Montilyet on multiple occasions, all of which had been exceedingly pleasant experiences. Her requests had all been politely accommodated, even the more challenging ones.

She rapped twice on the heavy wooden door before entering.

“Ah, Dr Centanni,” Josephine said warmly as Celes entered her line of sight. “Is there something I can do for you today?”

“There is,” she nodded sharply. The stack of papers, a detailed request asking specifically for any currently detained mages charged with blood magic, was placed neatly on her desk. Josephine blinked incredulously at it as she skimmed the first few paragraphs.

“This is…” she trailed off, leafing through the sheets.

“I know,” Celes breathed. “But if there is anyone that can manage, I am staring her in the face. It will be beneficial to our field surgeons, I promise. I am your best argument for it—the proof should help.”

“True,” she sighed, “but, you are also a known apostate and a member of a mostly-Qunari mercenary group. The only thing that has kept you from the Chantry at this point is the Inquisitor’s good word, and only then just barely.”

Celes shrugged. “My work in healing and field surgery speaks for itself, blood magic or no, and if I can train others like me—imagine the falling fatality rates, Ambassador.” She placed a hand on the stack, sliding it closer to Josephine. “I am not saying you have to act on it now, or ever. But I want it to be an option.”

Joesphine’s brow knitted before she finally relented and accepted the forms. “I will consider it,” she said carefully, “if it becomes something we can manage.”

“Thank you, Ambassador Montilyet.”

“Of course, Dr Centanni. Will that be all?”

“Of consequence, yes.” Celes folded her hands behind her back, shuffling her feet slightly. “As for frivolities—I do have one question. As well as a small request.”

“Not more… societally frowned upon ones, I hope,” she smiled tiredly.

“Depends on which society you speak.” Celes’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. “First—if you are comfortable, I wish that you use my first name in given interactions.”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “Celestine? I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Celestine or Celes, if you prefer.”

“Of course. And the question?”

Celes straightened, squaring her shoulders and taking a breath.

“Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, would you allow me to take you to dinner sometime?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 5, Eucatastrophe - a happy ending to a story  
> bull/lavellan, post-post-trespasser

“I think—yeah, just a few more inches to the left—perfect!”

Isen clapped her hands together as she exclaimed her satisfaction, on palm made from flesh and the other of precious metals, woven together and powered by solid magic and runes. It made a strange sound against her living one.

“Good, because I’m not dragging that couch across the floor again.” Not that it was physically difficult for him, but the violet jewel-toned sofa had moved locations eight times in the last two hours.

“It’s quite perfect, I promise,” she said with a small laugh, crossing the room and gracefully placing herself down on it. Her prosthetic patted the place next to her invitingly, and The Iron Bull never could deny one of his wife’s polite requests.

He threw an easy arm around her shoulders as they sat back and admired the living room around them. A year of building and renovations, months of furniture shopping and ‘finishing’ touches, weeks of setting it all up after the fact, but they were finally done. The might’ve owned the deeds to the land for much longer, but only now was the estate just outside of Val Royeaux feeling like it was truly home.

“Have I told you today how much I love you?” She asked as she snuggled into his side.

“Gone soft on me, Kadan?” The smile he levelled at her was nothing short of adoring.

“Always.” She stretched up to press a tender kiss to his mouth.

If he didn’t think about it, he could almost picture them as they were. Younger by at least eight years, returning to Skyhold with another victory for the Inquisition behind them. He’d pull her onto his lap at the Herald’s Rest, and they’d drink with their friends until they decided it was time to sneak upstairs and make love, their futures certain of nothing but each other. Not to say that the present was any less warm or near-perfect—their matching split dragon’s tooth and the gold band on her remaining hand testified to that.

“If I’ve said it before, I’ve said it again,” he murmured, pulling her close, “but that shit with the sky was one of the best things that could have happened to me.”

She laughed, framing his face with both hands as if holding the most precious commodity in the world, gently kissing him once more.

“I love you too, Bull.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 6, “I heard enough, this ends now.”  
> original inquisition companion/agent character

Kerria Tansel sauntered into the tavern as if she belonged there with the locals, as if her sudden appearance did not cause an immediate hush over the crowd. The only Vashoth in the room was bound to draw heads, especially one dressed as she. Beads and feathers had been woven into her hair, jangling as she walked past the tables to the barstools. Her dress, vibrant blue with a plunging neckline, was accentuated with the bold pieces of cloth and furs she chose to wrap around her waist. A few of the pelts dangled off the stool as she sat, swaying with each of her movements. The bracelets loaded on both arms jangled as she made herself comfortable, propping her face up on one hand and drumming her fingernails on the wood. The bartender immediately abandoned the customer he was serving—a man who was annoyed until her saw the tall, grey-skinned witch sitting two seats down from him.

“Did you find out?” He asked in a hoarse whisper, busying his hands by pouring her preferred brandy.

“Did I find out what?” Kerria drawled, watching the liquid swirl in the glass. The man, a balding human, was clearly irate with her blithe nature, but knew he could do nothing about it.

“What I paid you for,” he said, topping the drink up until she finally reached for it. He drew is hand back so quickly he nearly knocked down a nearby ale bottle.

“Oh, that,” she said with a lazy grin around her drink. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she said so, making the dark sclera glint oddly. She could tell he was trying not to focus on her only iris, a bright green thing shining out of her right socket. “Yeah, looked into it, hydromanced like you said—you haven’t been cursed.”

“I haven’t?” He said, relieved obviously.

“But you are getting cheated on. Your tampered stocks—jealous lover. But not a curse, unless you count marriage, but then again—”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” he spat, but shrank back at the smooth arch of her brow. “I—I just meant—there’s no way—”

“Oh, but there is!” She laughed. “I just asked—y’see, I’m fucking your wife’s boyfriend, so it was easy to just confirm—”

“I heard enough,” he scowled, aggressively polishing a tankard. “This ends now, _Witch_ —and you need to leave.”

Kerria _tsk’d_ , and in a blink, the barkeep was on the floor, contorted in pain. She reached over the counter and curled her fingers around the brandy, filling her glass once more.

“Always the same with these human towns,” she sighed dismally as patrons scrambled to vacate the room. “Lousy service, lousy drink, and absolutely no idea how to treat a lady.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 7 - "no worries, we still have time"   
> bull/lavellan. kinda suggestive, nothing explicit.

For someone so small, it was kind of incredible how heavy she could make herself when she didn’t feel like moving.

“ _Kadan_ ,” he said, nudging the body that was laying horizontally across his. “We have to get up. You probably have shit to do.”

“No we don’t,” she grumbled, voice muffled with her face pressed into the quilts. “I’m not worried. I’m the Inquisitor, I can do what I want—and I say we still have time.”

He hummed, drumming his fingers down the length of her spine, tapping each vertebra at least twice as he went. “You do know that won’t stop Josie from coming in here when you don’t show up to the War Table with the rest of them, right? And you’re still naked—not that I’m complaining, but I figured someone should remind you.”

She made noises of dissent with no real words, somehow becoming even more dead weight on his chest. “I can’t _believe_ you’re not on my side,” she groused, “especially when you know damn well we’d have sex another four times at _least_ if we stayed here.”

“I do know,” he chuckled, “and then four will turn to five, which might turn to six, and the next thing we know you’ve pissed off everyone important here because the sun is going down again.”

She picked up her head just enough to rest her chin on her folded hands and turned to look at him with a roll of her eyes.

“You talk like that’s a bad thing somehow?”

“It is when it gives Krem something else to give me shit for,” he laughed fondly, running his fingers through her mussed hair.

“Please,” she scoffed, “he’s just annoyed that no one in Skyhold is getting as much head as you regularly do. Especially from the Inquisitor. That’s grounds for bragging rights.”

“Right,” he said. “Sure that’s it and not how my back looks like it was mauled by a bear every time I leave your hands loose.”

“I thought you liked when I left a mark for a job well done?” she frowned.

“Never said I didn’t.” With that, he moved suddenly, and she yelped out a laugh as he managed to move her from her prone position. After navigating the tangle of limbs, he wound up sitting with Isen in his lap, her back pressed against his from and his arms stopping her from flopping down once more like she wanted to.

“But you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her neck, “need to,” _kiss_ , “get,” _kiss_ , “dressed. Before someone comes in.”

“I’m going, I’m _going_ ,” she groaned, heaving herself off of him and onto the floor with exaggerated effort. “But you’re going to owe me later for making me go.”

He grinned, watching her ass as she turned towards the dresser to ready herself.

“Can’t wait to see _those_ consequences.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 8 - "i know you do"  
> dorian/non-trevelyan human

“Oh, that’s a volume I haven’t seen you with before—a gift from the Inquisitor?”

Dorian jumped in his seat at the intrusion, only closing the tome halfway when he registered whose voice it was coming at him through the glass of the window. Nikolaus Corvus had scrambled up the wall once more to make conversation, a habit which the unfortunate individual in charge of his hazard pay had come to loathe. Dorian, of course, said nothing about the scout’s quirk but secretly delighted in the fact that he only ever seemed to perform it to visit him.

“Of a sort.” He leaned back into the plush armchair and smoothly crossed his legs, pretending to go back to being absorbed in the text.

“What sort?” Nik tried his hardest to make it look as though he was leaning just as casually as Dorian was, but the small width of the window ledge made the feat a difficult one. “The sort with dashing rogues and handsome princes? Dramatic, sweeping love stories in the face of tragedy?” Nik’s eyes sparkled as he smiled at Dorian, sweet and suggestive.

“Close.” He turned the page, eyeing him all the while. “But not quite. Tevinter tome—very old, practically incomprehensible theories, but interesting nevertheless.”

“Too bad,” he sighed. “I like the other kind far better.”

“I know you do,” Dorian chuckled. “Your taste in literature is even worse than Cassandra’s. I never even entertained the idea that such a thing could be possible, and yet here it is, blocking my light.”

“You love it,” he grinned. “And how do you think I’d get all these wonderful ideas if I didn’t see them somewhere? Come now, I know you appreciate my flair for the dramatic, elsewise you’d have sent me far away by now.”

“And you’re sure it has nothing to do with the dwarf betting me when you’ll be falling from there?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he shook his head. “And besides that, I know you’d only stand to gain the coin if I stayed _up_ instead of _down_. Which, by the way, I find exceedingly sweet.”

“What can I say,” he shrugged, lips twitching, “I’m a notorious sentimentalist.”

“Tell me then, Dorian, would the sentimentalist in you be interested in opening this window? It’s getting chilly out here, and that nasty Baron Von Plucky of Leliana’s is starting to look at me strangely. And as an aside, I’d very much like to kiss you right now. The main reason this dashing rogue scaled this wall, really.”

Dorian laughed easily, and reached over to unhook the latch without a second thought. Nik tumbled in gracefully and landed with a bow, lifting his head slightly to shoot the mage a wink, a thoughtless motion that made Dorian’s chest swell with fondness.

“You know what, Amatus? I think I rather enjoy the dramatics after all.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 9 - wedding   
> bull/lavellan

“Stop _fussing_ , Darling—you look exquisite. She’ll be delighted to see you, although I suspect she would be pleased no matter what today.”

Bull did as he was told and stopped adjusting the sash that Vivienne had selected for him last week, letting his arms dangle at his sides. Unlike Isen’s dress, which required at least two other people to get laced up into, he was entrusted with getting himself into his suit. Vivienne had arrived at the end to add the final touches. Busy as she was these days, the Divine made a point of knowing that her dear friends would be looking their absolute best on their wedding day, despite the two of them being the only ones to actually attend their own ceremony at Val Royeaux’s legal offices. _A simple, private affair does not mean you don’t dress your best, Darling_ , she reminded him months ago.

He eyed himself in the mirror as Vivienne fixed the pieces he’d moved. Deep purple coat, trimmed with silvers and greens to match the gemstones inset in the eyepatch. Dark pants, ones that actually fit well and looked good compared to his normal stripes. Boots of the softest leathers, impractical for fighting or even a brisk jog, but they were a lovely backdrop to the metal detailing.

“There,” she said as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders at last. “Everything as it should be. How are you feeling?”

“Good.” He was still focused on his reflection. Bull was beyond certain that Vivienne could feel his rapid pulse through the air from where she was standing, but he wasn’t going to let on that he felt—what? Nervousness? Excitement? It was a foreign sensation, whatever it was.

She chuckled, politely hiding it behind a few fingers. “Just good? You know, Darling, there’s no shame in admitting to a case of pre-ceremony jitters. I believe it afflicts most people, if not all.”

“I don’t—have _that_ , Ma’am. It’s not even a big deal, really. Just dressing up and signing a few papers, getting a bite to eat after.”

“No?” She arched a brow, clearly preparing to rib him a little—some things never changed, clearly. “Perhaps we should ask your bride the same question, see what she has to say about it though I somehow doubt she would agree—we did not spend hours agonizing over the look of her prosthesis for the day with Dagna for ‘no big deal.’”

He cracked a small smile, finally. “Alright, maybe a little excited.”

She raised the eyebrow even higher.

“Maybe a lot excited,” he amended. “It’s weird—really weird, never thought I’d be doing it—but I’m _happy_ ,” he grinned. “And _she’s_ happy, and I want this with her.”

“Good!” Divine Victoria flashed a dazzling, pleased smile, before patting him on the shoulder one last time and gesturing towards the door. “Now go—I won’t have you late for your own ceremony. And Bull—congratulations. To you both.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” He returned the grin and made a beeline for the door. Isen was probably already waiting for him, and Vivienne didn’t have to tell him twice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 10, Hesychastic - keeping silence; soothing or quieting  
> f!hawke/isabela

Hawke hadn’t moved from her edge on the bed since they’d come home. Cilla knew that she had things to do—at the very least, she needed to begin organizing the funeral. She needed to start going through Leandra’s possessions, deciding how it should be divided between herself and Carver. But she didn’t know how to do that, not without him being there to give his opinion at the very least. And speaking of Carver—oh, she’d have to contact him somehow, wouldn’t she? Fine a raven to fly to whichever keep he was staying at, but then who’s to say he was even there? Would he blame her for not getting the news to him sooner, for not waiting until he could come back to the estate to start organizing everything?

She hunched over, bracing her elbows on her knees, and covered her face with both hands as she took a shaking inhale and tried to steady herself. She’d been crying nearly non-stop and was already sick to death of it. She needed to _move,_ but she remained where she was, hunched over and collapsing into herself.

The door creaked open.

“How… how are you holding up?” Isabela hadn’t quite made it over to her, hovering awkwardly somewhere near the middle of the room. And that was something, wasn’t it? Since when could she ever describe Isabela as awkward? It would have been almost funny any other time.

Cilla didn’t say anything. She knew that if she opened her mouth, the dam would break and the tears would spill over once again.

She finished crossing the room when she heard no response and knelt down before her. Cilla could smell her from here, a mix of vanilla and spice and what she liked to imagine was sea air that still clung to her hair and skin. The sound of a glass being delicately placed on the floor reached her ears, and her hands were gently pried away from her face. She still kept her eyes downcast, unable to even consider looking up, but that was okay.

“I brought—I thought you might like something to drink,” Isabela sighed as she offered the glass. She was right; Cilla was more dehydrated than she’d ever been, and she kept her hand over Isabela’s as she tilted it to her lips until it was emptied. She went back to clasping both of Cilla’s hands in hers, unsure of what to do or say next.

It was too much for Cilla and somehow not enough. She was able to meet Isabela’s eyes this time, wanting to say _something,_ but nothing came. Nothing but a wrenching, hollowed sob that had pried itself free from somewhere deep in her chest.

 _Speechless_ and _Isabela_ weren’t usually two words that held any connection, but in the wake of everything, she was truly at a loss. And so, instead of trying to fill the air with quips and jokes and distracting comments, she let the Champion of Kirkwall bury herself into her neck and shoulder and cling to her as if she were the last solid thing in the universe, choking on years of grief and pain and repressed sadness that she’d never wanted to burden anyone with before. And if underneath all of that, you could almost hear the faint rhythm of old Rivaini lullabies and rhymes, who was to say any differently?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 11 - Inspissate - to thicken or congeal  
> isen has a conversation with her surgeon

“Shall I tell you how completely stupid I think this is, or would you prefer me to keep quiet for the procedure?”

Isen winced as Dr Centanni’s magic penetrated her body. She could see the merits of reattributing blood magic to medicine, of course, and willingly subjected herself to the treatment for her own injuries because of the sheer speed of the healing. That didn’t mean she exactly _liked_ being aware of how her own blood felt when it was thickening and tugging over a wound.

“Can I even take the second option or would you just ignore that?”

Celes shrugged, smoothly easing a few more pieces of shrapnel from the Inquisitor’s leg. “I’m known for efficiency, not bedside manner. You can either take the sweet Chantry Sister’s bandages and suffer through gangrene later on, or you come to me and get back to work by the end of the evening.”

Isen wanted to snap back when a particularly painful jolt shot through her nerves, but she willed herself still and said nothing. She was right, in all honesty, and it was a very lucky thing indeed Celes so happened to be currently posted in the same area of the Approach they were scouting, otherwise an injury as deep as this one would’ve had her out at least a week.

“You’re lucky you’re such a good doctor, you know.”

Celes didn’t even bother looking up from her work. “Yes, the more anxious Vashoth I worked with said the same thing often. Usually when I was elbow deep in someone’s chest.” Between the Orlesian accent and the way she remarked on it so dryly, so casually, there was something about the image that nearly made Isen’s stomach turn.

She turned her eyes toward the ceiling of the tent, looking anywhere but at her leg and Celes’s hands. “And you spent a lot of time, messing around in their chests?”

“A handful of times. Kaaras was very disparaging about my methods until it was his turn. Now he just grumbles when he thinks I cannot hear. He is just bitter, I think. He lacks the initiative to try anything half as innovative with his magic—and as for you, I am finished.”

“Done already?” She blinked.

“I need to cleanse the area one last time, but yes.”

The fragments of the small Venatori-set explosion, something meant for nothing more than to startle them, were left in a bloodied pile on a nearby tray. Not a lot, but enough that they would have caused her pain even after the external wound healed. Celes was absolutely one of the cockiest people she’d ever met, the human Valo-Kas showing her why people described surgeons as having endless god-complexes. But clearly, it wasn’t without reason. Celes finished her work in silence, wrapped it in a delicate gauze to be left on just for the night, to protect the new skin, and that was that. They nodded at each other, Isen leaving with a curt _thank you_ and a mental note to see if she could give the surgeon some sort of raise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 12 - flowers  
> bull/lavellan

“What are you doing back there?”

Isen hummed, weaving together an intricate wildflower chain. She was sitting behind him on the hill, and as a result was able to see over his head for a change. Opportunities where she could play the ‘big spoon,’ as it were, were rare and the Inquisitor took what she could get.

“Just passing time.” The party was done moving for the day, stopping at one of the pre-set scout camps for their night's rest. Much better than rolling out their beds at the mercy of the elements, though if he had to rate the Emerald Graves next to the other places they’d been, it was actually on the pleasant side of things.

Bull was nestled between her legs, leaning back with his eye closed. He could feel her quick hands running deftly over his horns, fussing with something atop his head—it tickled, whatever it was, but not in a bad way. And knowing her, she wouldn’t let him stew in his curiosity for long. Moments of peace like this came few and far in between; it was nice to simply let them roll over on their own and bask in them as long as possible. The sun on his skin was warm, the grass soft, his love warm and gentle behind him.

“That’s as done as that’s going to get,” she finally said, dropping her hands to rest on his shoulders.

“What’s done?” He asked without cracking an eye.

“Flower crown. Mostly on your horns. I was going to do more, but I’m out of flowers I can reach from here. And don’t worry,” she laughed, dropping a kiss to his forehead, “I made sure to put the most focus on the pink ones.”

Bull’s own laugh rumbled low in his chest. “See that my _Kadan_ knows me pretty well these days, huh?”

“Putting the Inquisition’s knowledge to its best use, of course.”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “Hey, scoot down here for a second—switch places with me.”

She cocked her head to the side curiously, even knowing that he couldn’t see from where he was. “What for?”

“I’m going to use the ones you couldn’t reach,” he said, grinning up at her. “See whose turns out better.”

“A contest,” she laughed, rolling her eyes fondly, “With daisy chains? First of all, that’s ridiculous and I love it, but secondly—what makes you think you’ll be able to out-weave a Dalish elf, hm? The eye for natural colour and pattern is very inherent, you know. Ancient tradition, or something. I don't know, I grew up in the woods--you know what I mean.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me. C’mere, I’ll show you how Qunari weave wildflowers—then we’ll see who has the _real_ eye for colour here.”

She giggled and shimmied out from under him, moving across the grass and down the hill a bit until they’d swapped positions.

“You’re _on_. I hope they taught you how to lose gracefully on Par Vollen, because I’m confident in my daisy-chain making abilities.”

“We’ll see, _Kadan_ , we’ll see.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 13 - try harder next time  
> isenril lavellan/kerria tansel, ~8 years before events of dai

“You’re the worst. I figure someone should tell you before someone else just snaps and decks you one of these days.”

Kerria laughed, reclining back on the bare mattress and re-igniting the candles with a sideways glance. “You don’t mean that, Peaches. Trying to hurt my feelings or something? After all that good head I just gave you?” Past her tangle of black hair, she looked at where her redheaded bedmate sat propped on her elbows, scowling. Isenril had lived with her for less than two months, barely into her twenties and it showed, and although the elf claimed to find her personality abhorrent, it didn’t stop them from fucking hard on every surface in Kerria’s home.

“Did it work?” She asked dryly.

“Nope,” she grinned, all sharp teeth and hard lines. “Try harder next time. And I’ve already _been_ punched, multiple times—now I just get off on it.”

Isenril narrowed her eyes, flopping back onto the bed with her arms crossed. “Still the worst,” she affirmed. “A real cunt. Hedonistic, too.”

“Big words,” she chuckled, “careful you don’t choke on them.”

“I don’t even know why I bother,” she scowled.

Kerria shrugged. “A question for the ages—it clearly isn’t my charm and good looks. Well, maybe the good looks. Who knows?” She turned on her side, mindful of her horns as she propped her head up with a closed fist. “You don’t hate me, Peaches, otherwise you wouldn’t let me anywhere near that skinny, scarred up little body of yours.” She moved to trail a hand up Isenril’s thigh, tracing the edge of a large old burn with sharp fingernails, laughing when she pulled away from the appraising touch. Isenril was a funny little thing, and Kerria liked that about her. Prodding at her was always exciting, and she never quite knew how severe the slap on the wrist was going to be when she inevitably overstepped a boundary.

“Maybe I’m just that good in bed,” she mused. “Maybe you like how the humans are afraid of me, maybe you like living rent free. Maybe you like being around other magic—you’re a tough read, Peaches. I don’t even think you know.”

“As if,” she replied coldly, leaving the bed and collecting her clothes from the floor. “I know enough to know that telling you will get me nothing. There’s no point.”

Kerria shrugged with a lax smile, watching the sharp curve of her hips with predator’s eyes. “That much is true. You planning on coming to town with me tonight, or are you just gonna mope and drink in the greenhouse again?”

Isenril grit her teeth, sighing bitterly before answering. “Fine. But not until I wash _you_ off of me.”

“Suits me just fine, Peached. Suits me just fine.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 14 - "some people call this wisdom"   
> warden & morrigan

“You know, some people call this wisdom.”

Morrigan watched and said nothing as Neri fumbled with the knife. The Warden had offered to cook dinner for the camp that night, seeing as she’d yet to actually volunteer, but the reason as to why exactly she hadn’t seemed very clear now. As a Circle Mage, Mahariel had never _actually_ cooked—and Morrigan, ever the kind friend, had decided that she simply had to watch how the woman intended to go about this foreign task.

“Alright, maybe not _wisdom_ , exactly.” She winced as the knife slipped, missing the rabbit’s skin and nearly nicking her own off instead. “Maybe instinct?”

“You’ve been trying to clean that meat for nearly twenty minutes,” she pointed out flatly. “I highly doubt that I am watching instinct or wisdom at play.”

“Alright, fine,” she sighed. “I have no idea how to do this. But I want to—well, everyone else has had a chance to help, right? I don’t like just sitting there and feeling useless. And I don’t want anyone else to think that of me either.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “And so your solution to this was to take on a task that you had no idea how to approach in the first place? One that, might I add, most of us are quite looking forward to this evening.”

Neri offered a tired half smile. “At least give me credit for never saying my food was going to be good.”

Morrigan’s lips twitched. “Fine, fine, credit for that at least. Tell me though, after you’ve completed this step, how do you intend to go about the next ones? Do you even know them?”

Her shoulder slumped slightly. “I was sort of hoping it would just come to me?”

“That’s not how cooking works.”

“I can _hope_.”

“I suppose you can. I…” She hesitated for a breath, before deciding to push on. “I could show you. If you would like. Not everything, of course—’tis very entertaining to watch a Warden wind herself in a circle trying to figure this out. But at the very least, it will not do to have you bleed all over dinner.”

Neri brightened considerably. “I’m going to pretend you’re being altruistic and stand to gain nothing from this, not even roast rabbit.” She passed the sticky knife off to the other mage, who wrinkled her nose slightly at the way she’d managed to soak even the handle in blood.

“Assuming that I can even salvage anything from this, yes.” Ignoring the way she was staring at her happily, Morrigan set to work. Really, she’d skinned just about every kind of creature that lived in the Kocari Wilds at this point. A rabbit was nothing.

“Now pay attention—I shall not be going out to find some other unfortunate creature for you to practise on. Firstly, you should be holding the blade in this way…”

Supper may still have been slightly burnt, but Neri still thought it was the finest cut of meat she’d ever had.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 15, lippitude - soreness of the eyes  
> scout harding/qunari scout oc

“Do Qunari not need sleep or something? You’re allowed to let someone else take over the watch, you know.”

Vesta Meraad blinked as Harding’s voice drew her away from her thoughts. As per the request of their leader, Shokrakar, the Valo-Kas had been individually assigned to positions they were best suited for. Vesta, knowing her way around the land and around a blade, had been a natural selection for a forward scout. Which was all well and good, she enjoyed the work a good deal, but she had a very difficult time trying to form a coherent thought around the lead scout, Harding.

They were cutting through the Frostback Basin before the arrival of the Inquisitor’s parties, and Vesta decided it would be prudent to commit as much of it to visual memory as possible before they set out deeper. Also, the spiders the size of Qunari toddlers—she wasn’t too fond of letting one of those anywhere near the camp.

“Maybe,” she shrugged, tucking her chin into her cloak. “You’d have to ask one, probably.”

“Oh, right—you’re… Vashoth? That’s it, right?” Even standing, Harding eye level was only just above Vesta’s while sitting. Sitting hunched slightly and hugging her knees, no less. The rain held a fierce chill tonight.

“It is,” she nodded. “And at some point, I’ll probably need to drop off for the night. Stop staring so hard at nothing. But I like feeling prepared.”

She chuckled, pulling her own cloak tighter against the rain. “I guess so. Personally, I think I’d go blind if I kept squinting into the dark like that.”

“Jana says dwarves can see just as well as elves in the dark.”

“Is Jana a surfacer?”

Vesta thought for a moment. “Well… she is now, at least. Though now that I think about it, she might’ve also been messing with me.”

“That or she’s secretly part elf,” Harding said, and Vesta laughed quietly into the fabric.

“Come on,” she finally said, “Kent can switch off with you. Stew’s still warm, if you’re up for it.”

She considered a moment, with one final glance to where she was sure she’d seen a small cluster of spiders moments before.

“You know, I think I might like that.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16. Minatory - threatening  
> f!hawke & merrill

“Do you really think that just having the Eluvian around would frighten people?”

Cilla shrugged. Merrill had almost completed her mirror project, although one last thing still appeared to be needed to get the thing functioning once more. Personally, she thought it was beautiful more than anything else, but was far from an expert in the area.

“It might. Probably. But they don’t know about it, do they? So there’s really nothing to be nervous about.”

Merrill pondered that a moment. “You’re right, Hawke. Of course. I moved it in pieces, and I doubt anyone here would think it anything more than a plain mirror—of course, people see me bringing odds and ends around town all the time, so it’s not like it’s anything stranger than usual, right?”

Cilla stared up at the eluvian from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. The reflection was off, dulled around the edges and seemed to blur out altogether where it was darkest around the cracks.

“Right. Just a nice, big mirror as far as everyone else need be concerned.”

“If only it was as easy to fix as a plain old mirror.” Merrill sighed, running a fingertip over a particularly fractured section. “Maybe then, I could actually get it to help…” she trailed off in the thought.

“Well, we will!” She tried to make her voice as reassuring as possible to combat her friend’s downturned expression. “I certainly don’t know how, but it’s only a matter of time. We’ll figure it out—we’ve made it this far with everything, haven’t we?”

“I suppose you’re right.” She turned away from the mirror and back to Hawke. “Oh, but I’ve almost forgotten! I’m trying to be a better host these days, so I made sure that I had something for you this time instead of just water.”

“Now you’ve got me curious.”

“Good!” She laughed. “It’s—well, I tried anyway, I’m still not quite sure what humans like to eat? But it’s dinner. It’s… a Dalish recipe, mostly, but I asked around the market square for anything I could add to it to make it a little more familiar. Or just different? I’m not sure, but the butcher seemed happy enough to help.”

“You’ve got a willing guest, Merrill,” she smiled as she stood. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. No worse than when it’s Carver’s turn to cook at least. And besides, it’s always more fun to talk about magic over a good meal.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mnemonist - one from whose memory nothing is erased  
> f!hawke

Hawke never much cared for writing. The words always came in and out of her head too fast for her hands to keep up, and the end result was rarely what she wanted. Indeed, she far preferred to dictate what needed to be recorded to someone quicker, someone who could make sense of her jumbled mind. Bethany had been her first choice back in Lothering, always. She was patient, and intelligent, and kind when it came to correcting her sister’s mistakes. In Kirkwall, that wasn’t an option. And besides, she didn’t feel comfortable asking anyone for help with these notes.

Each began with the date, and if she knew it when she was writing, the hour too. Her hand was not pretty or neat, and often she couldn’t even read her own scrawl when going back to it days later. The legibility didn’t matter as much as the fact that the ink had hit the page in the first place.

_Early morning. Slept poorly. Stayed quiet in bed with dog. Mother knocked twice and then nothing._

_Saw hairpiece in market. Flowers. Reminded of Bethany. Bought it, lost it???? Will have to ask if anyone saw._

_Mother insists on bringing home ‘nice young men’ for me. She knows. I know. Polite enough boys, I don’t want them. Doesn’t stop her._

_Hired new servant today. Much better cooking. Doesn’t think I’m odd for wanting dry toast. House quieter with no Carver. Gamlen hovers, I want him gone, can’t say anything to Mother._

_House too big. Hightown is empty._

_I miss Father._

Pressed between the rough pages of the small leather-bound book were also things of relevance. Scraps of paper, fabric, plants, whatever she could hang onto—Cilla kept. She forgot too easily, she knew, though few people faulted her for leaving her past in the past without even trying. Living in one’s past could be dangerous, after all, but so was abandoning it entirely. It wasn’t complete enough for a memoir, or even a real journal. But the book, and the words and pieces within, had become an extension of herself.

Someone ought to remember, after all.

 


End file.
